


Make you feel my love

by Iefe



Category: Men's Basketball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:35:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26952262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iefe/pseuds/Iefe
Summary: Michael's flu game from Scottie's side
Relationships: Michael Jordan/Scottie Pippen
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19





	Make you feel my love

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to that iconic photo of Scottie Pippen carrying an exhausted Mj off the court.

The buzz of the crowd is deafening and the cameras are too close. Everyone is on edge. The commentators are running their mouth on what's happened and how it's gonna be going forward. He can't really hear all that right now. He has his arms full with a sick Michael. 

He's practically carrying him, Michael's all limp and sluggish. He's put too much energy into the game. He shouldn't even have played but there's no use telling Michael not to do something. He's stubborn like that. 

He tried his best to assist Michael as much as he could, playing aggressively and giving him the time to get his rhythm. He knew Michael wasn't gonna put in a bad game. That's impossible, he doesn't lose. Not in the finals, not against the Jazz and definitely not to himself. His mental strength doesn't cease to amaze Scottie but it's also what's led to this. Michael's pressed into him, clinging onto him like an octopus. He's pretty sure if he let go now, the man would drop. He has completely drained himself. 

He's smiling. He's smiling because Michael's done exactly what he thought he would and exceeded his expectations. He should have known that Michael wouldn't let sickness affect his game. What can he not do?

It's kind of funny - he's carrying Michael for this one game and Michael's carried him for the last 11 seasons. He's also smiling because it's him that Michael has stuck himself onto. It's him that Michael has clung onto in his moments of weakness. His grip tightens a little and he extends an arm over Michael's shoulders to hold him up. Michael's face is squished into his chest and his breathing is arrhythmic. The others are not near, he doesn't know where they are. He can only see Michael and himself right now. There's a camera in his face. He puts distance between them and leads into the tunnel. 

The sounds of the arena drowns out and is replaced by the members of staff. He breaks away from them, balancing Michael and walks to the locker room. Michael's still weak, even his hold on Scottie's waist is loose. He's so close. He can rest his chin on Michael's head from here. 

They're separated once in the locker room. Michael crumbles into a seat and is immediately fed Gatorade and given ice packs. He chugs down the fluid too quickly, the loose stream of water flowing down his chin mixes with his sweat and gushes down into the jersey. 

He's not even rested for five minutes yet when he returns to the corridors to be interviewed. _Why must he act so tough._ Scottie hates that. He's clearly under the weather and in no condition to be doing what he's doing. He's already pushed it by playing. But he smiles either way thinking about it. 

He hears Michael saying how he almost played himself into passing out. He selfishly wishes that had happened but no - they wouldn't have won without him. Him being sick pushed the others to do better to cover what's been left by him. He packs up and leaves for the bus. He doesn't bother with the media. They don't need to know everything.

* * *

On the bus, it's unusually quiet. The engine is the only noise disrupting the silence and he thinks maybe the others are resting. Looking closer at them, it doesn't seem so. They look tense and worried. He would like to think they're worrying about Michael's well-being. But they're probably more worried about Michael not being able to play and having to do it themselves. If they lose the series, they'll face angry Michael which is worse than sick Michael. He smiles again at the thought. 

Michael's still queasy, leaning far back into the seat and wrinkles etched between his brows. The motion sickness is probably not making it better for him. The towel around his neck is soaked even though it's a new one. He looks away for a second and sees Phil's concerned face. There's not a lot of things that can faze the coach but if there is, it's a weak and dilapidated Michael. He's pretty sure it's okay though. It's nothing too serious. If it were, Michael wouldn't have been able to score 38 points.

In the afternoon just now, when everybody was gathered for lunch, they had noticed Michael's condition and were all troubled. The others had discussed extensively about what could have caused this and if he could play today. He wasn't surprised, he knew. Michael had called him to his room the night before.

* * *

It was late, the room was dark if not for the streaks of light shining through the curtain from outside. He was supposed to be asleep by then but he couldn't. The entire night he had been plagued by a feeling that unsettled him and left him uneasy. Maybe it was the fact that Michael had very disgustingly spat on his pizza to assert his domain but probably not. He always did that. Everybody's used to it. The man had terrible manners. Either way, it was a sleepless night. 

In the dullness of the room, the hotel phone rang. He thought that maybe he should ignore it and try to rest but what if it's important. Reaching to the bedside table and picking up the phone, he manages a tired greeting. Thank heavens he answered. Michael's pained voice filled his ears and was exaggerated by the emptiness of his hotel room. He was summoned by Michael who sounded like he could benefit from a doctor. In a rush to get out, he threw on his clothes that he had abandoned on the floor and beelines for Michael at the end of the hallway. 

He doesn't know what's going on but he can't not panic when he hears how horrible Michael sounds. He reaches the door and hesitates a moment before pushing down the handle. It's not locked and swings away to reveal a gloomy room with only the tv and bathroom light to illuminate his way. He steps into the room and closes the door, making sure it doesn't lock just in case he needs to fetch someone. 

The way to the bed is blocked by a wall so he can't see Michael until he's right at the foot of the bed. It's worse than he thought. Michael's in the fetal position, hugging a pillow tight as a vice and teeth grinding like sandpaper. The phone is left on the bed, tiny screen bright to show that he was the only one that was called. 

For a brief minute, Scottie's stunned into motionless and merely tries to take in what he sees. He looks fucking dreadful. There's so much tension in the way he's caving in on himself and his fingers are scrapping the pillow, making the sound of nails going across fabric. His legs are thrashing about, as if he's trying to gain a foothold on himself and failing miserably. Scottie breaks out of his trance when Michael calls out to him hoarsely. 

He moves to the side of the bed and squats down to be at eye level with him, gently removing the pillow that's obstructing his view and places it at the foot of the bed. Michael's expressions are much clearer and scarier up close. He's never seen the man in so much pain before. His heart aches to see this. 

Scottie asks him if he needs water or medication and he barely manages a nod. Moving to pour a glass of water, he also catches sight of a leftover slice of pizza that has been left in the box. He's got a bad feeling about it. He goes to where Michael's suitcase lies to search for some ibuprofen. He knows it should be in there somewhere. Michael's luggage is small but disorganised and the lack of lighting isn't making it easier. Finally, he finds it at the bottom, underneath all the oversized suits. 

Making his way back to the bed, water and medication in hand, he places them down on the bedside table first and helps Michael to sit up. Michael's trembling slightly and his arm's still hugging his stomach. Scottie gets a hand on his biceps and waist, assisting him in sitting against the headboard like he was a patient in a hospital and Scottie was his nurse. He looked tormented and his face showed so. There's a sheen of sweat covering his body that Scottie wants to clean off him. But first, he needs medication. 

There's a period of silence after Michael gulped down the pills where he seemed a little better. Maybe it was just placebo but as long as he feels better, it's fine. Michael brings his one knee slowly up to his chest, moving without his usual explosiveness. He sticks his hand out, and it falls back onto the mattress with a bounce. Scottie doesn't know what to do about that but he sits where Michael's hand had landed. He asks if he should turn on the lights but doesn't get any clear reply other than a grunt. He'll take that as a yes.

He's grown accustomed to the dim room by now and spots the light switches on the other side of the bed, opposite of where he is. He wonders if he can tell Michael to turn it on himself as he's closer but decides against it. He's weak and he's asked him here for support. Scottie twists and puts one hand over Michael, holding himself up as he forms a bridge above him and uses his other hand to flick the switches on. The lights blind him fleetingly and he can see the state Michael's in unhindered. Michael turns and breathes out from his mouth, eyes glazed yet assertively looking at Scottie. His lips are dry and chapped. Scottie shifts so both his legs are on the bed and withdraws from above Michael. 

He doesn't know what to do now. He's not a trainer or a physician, there's not much he can do for Michael. But he can understand why he's the only one called. It's not good to have Phil and the trainers know of something this serious and fretting before it's confirmed that he needs a hospital and the others are sleeping. Michael's fingers are restless and continuously rakes at the sheets, as well as digging into his skin. Scottie eyes Michael and bites his lip, thinking. Maybe he should go out and get someone. But Michael wouldn't want that. 

There's a sweaty hand on his own. It wakes him up from his thoughts and he smiles, a sweet smile lest Michael becomes the worrier instead of him. He puts intense interest on their stacked hands and shuffles them, making their fingers intertwine.

He picks up the glass of water again with his other hand. Michael's head is bent back and his eyes are toward the ceiling, his neck exposed and stretched out. His chest is heaving, moving up and down in tandem with his breaths. Scottie steadies Michael's head and hold him in place as he holds the glass to his lips and tipped the fluid into him. He chugs it down like a thirsty sea sponge, Adam's apple bobbing. It's finished in no time. 

Placing the glass back on the table with a clink, Scottie once again falls back into a feeling of being at sea, lost in the overwhelming vastness and emptiness of the room. His fingers are stroking Michael's unthinkingly. He doesn't know what he can do for Michael. _This hurts._

Since he's here, he'll just have to take good care of him. He climbs next to Michael and mirrors his position. The tv is playing a local program that goes over his head. He reaches for Michael's hand again and holds it as he brings it to his lap. With no distance between them, he can feel Michael's disposition and the pain seemed to have faded to a bearable degree. He squeezes his hand comfortingly and steadies his breathing for him to follow. They stay like that for a while, with the occasional spasm of discomfort where Michael will twist up in agony. 

The tv has switched to advertisements and Scottie's slowly falling asleep to its soft noises and Michael's presence. Their hands are still on his lap, the heat of their palms seeping into his smile. There's a weight on his shoulder and as he turns, he nearly brushes his lips on Michael's head. He's finally relaxed and dozing off, muscles unwinded and looking as peaceful as ever. 

Michael doesn't get much sleep - he doesn't need it. Awake till the darkest hours and up at the arrival of dawn, that's how he always functioned. He thinks it safe to rest his cheek against Michael's head and adjusts himself to get used to this act of proximity. 

In the haze of sleep and melancholy, he asks one thing of Michael, "I know you're stressing but don't play tomorrow. Let me take care of you." 

He places a warm and regrettable kiss on the knuckles of the stocky hand that's unfurled in his. He can't be sure but he felt the fingers tense a little.

* * *

Once they arrived at the hotel, Michael was first to disembark and promptly rushed away to his room by the staff. Scottie goes along with the rest of the Bulls into an elevator. As they each left to go on with whatever activities, Scottie thinks about where to go. He can go back to his own room, he can go to his teammates room and hang out, or he can check in on Michael. As he's lost in thought, Phil catches up with him and is walking beside him shoulder to shoulder. 

"Scottie, do you know what Michael's weakness is?" 

He's taken aback by the question but recovers quickly and lists down in his head several answers. He doesn't voice them out. Giving Phil a pointed look, he urges the older man to continue. 

"It's his competitive drive." 

"I thought that was his strength." 

"It is. It is also why he's as sick as he is right now. He doesn't know when to stop and that's the reason why he's a winner but one day he's going to break his limit."

Scottie doesn't know how to respond so he doesn't. It's an interesting way of looking at things, he's never thought of that before today. But who's going to stop Michael from destroying himself? 

"Go check up on him. And make sure he's actually well before I put him in the next game." 

He nods and continues walking past his room to Michael's. He knocks twice before entering even though he doesn't need to - he has permission. Always. 

It's busy, there's Michael on the sofa being tended to and even his bodyguards are present, looking to see if he's any better. There's not much space for him to sit, being 6'8 and all limbs. He looks over at the bed that's been left relatively empty despite the messiness of the rest of the room. There's equipment, towels, Gatorade bottles and people. Michael looks much better compared to last night, maybe it did him some good to play and sweat it out. Only he can make extensive exercise while sick to the stomach - meant quite literally- salubrious. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he looks on as Michael deals with his team and answers all their questions. He looks slightly annoyed at being hounded. He's probably already recovered completely, Scottie thinks. Their concern is unnecessary, mainly because it's Michael. He's gonna be fine. 

* * *

After a while of just looking on and watching the news channel drabble on about the 'flu game', Michael's finally able to dismiss everyone from the room and lies down completely on the couch, his legs sticking out comically. There's a melting ice pack on his forehead. Does he even have a fever anyway? 

Michael's bodyguard, Gus, the one that is like a father to him, is the last to leave. He takes a long indiscernible look at Michael lying down with his eyes covered by the ice pack and sighs. Scooting over to Scottie, he says in a low voice, 

"Scottie, take care of him wld'ya? I don't think he's as good as he says he is. You'd be able to get through to him." 

Scottie doesn't think he'd actually be able to but he nods. Gus probably knows Michael better than he does, so he'll just take whatever the guy says.

Without Gus, they're the only ones in the room. Scottie isn't sure why he's here or what he's supposed to do but he just feels like he should stay. He's accompanying Michael but his thoughts are accompanying him too. What did Phil want to accomplish by telling him that? And why did Gus say he'll get through to Michael? He could count on all fingers why that's a pretty impossible thing to do. 

The tv is still blaring about the game and Scottie's getting tired of it. He stalks to the coffee table and takes the remote to change the channel to something less irritating. Before the screen flashes to another program, there's an image of Michael and him from today's game. It was from just about an hour or two ago, of him practically carrying Michael off the court. He was smiling there. He didn't even notice he was smiling.

He hears a sudden intake of air from Michael and immediately moves closer to check up on him. Crouching down, he slides the ice pack further up so that the water droplets won't drip onto his face. His eyes are shut and the wrinkle between his brows is still there. _So he really isn't that much better._ His hand slides from the ice pack to Michael's scalp, thumb brushing gently to iron out the furrowed area between his brows. Michael visibly relaxes and his lips part slightly to take in larger breaths. 

"Gus doesn't know what he's talking about. I'm fine," he says without opening his eyes. Scottie's pretty sure even Michael himself doesn't believe it. 

"If you say so." 

"You told me not to play tonight." 

His thumb hovers in midair and his blood runs cold. _I thought he was asleep._

"I did. It would be good if you had listened" 

"I wouldn't have had 38 and a w if I were benched." 

"You wouldn't even be benched. You'd be in the hotel, resting on your bed like a normal sick person." 

"I'm not normal." The sentence isn't as arrogant as it should sound, afterall, Michael Jordan isn't normal. 

"I guess not." There's a little tug on the edge of his lips. 

He can't help the little snickle that escapes from him and his body shakes, making the thumb rubbing down Michael's forehead tremble as well. Michael opens his eyes and glares at him as he retracts his hand. 

"What's so funny?" 

"Nothing. It's just, you're right. You're not normal. But you're human. You gotta rest, you know." 

"That's what I'm doing now" 

"No. You should've rested today. You're sick. But I knew you'd play no matter what. You're an asshole like that." 

"How the hell am I an asshole now?" Michael huffs, eyes twitchy.

"You're strong. But you push yourself too hard. And you make me worry. I said I'd take care of you - I mean it. You should've let me." 

"Pip, you're great and all but this is the finals. If I don't play, our chances of winning is reduced by like - sixty percent." 

"We're a strong team," he trails off, " point is, you're a sick person and you need rest. Which you haven't gotten much of yet. So I'm here on the account of Phil and Gus and everybody else to make sure you actually get some." That's what he says but really, if he stayed true to his intentions, he just wanna be the one that Michael can rely on and be open with. 

"And how are you gonna make sure of that? You're gonna nanny me? Make sure to carry me to bed and tuck me in?" 

Scottie's seriously considering it and thinks, _that's exactly what I should do._ He surveys Michael who seems to have stabilised after their little back-and-forth. Getting up from the squat position, he grips Michael's shoulders.

"Get up and move to the bed." Pulling the man up, he orders as strictly as he can. 

Michael actually laughs and as he stands, pokes fun at Scottie. "Thought you were gonna carry me?" 

_I wish._ Maybe 30 more pounds and he can try again. If he can find a reason to carry Michael, that is. 

"Nah, I don't want to break my bones and lose both our aces for friday. Phil'll get mad." 

Michael shrugs and plops the melted ice pack on the coffee table. He's walking normally and doesn't seem to be in any sort of pain but Scottie can't be sure - he'll never want to show weakness in front of others especially if it concerns his place in a game. It's kind of charming actually. 

Scottie pours a glass of water for him as he clambers into bed, lying diagonally and stretching himself out. Walking over to where his head is, Scottie puts the glass down on the bedside table and presses the back of his hand to Michael's forehead. It's a little warm now due to the lack of ice but there doesn't seem to be a fever. He can leave now since Michael's in bed and already has his eyes closed but he doesn't want to. He needs to make sure the dude actually stays there and catches some sleep. And he wants to be there if the sickness acts up. He'll be the one to take care of him. 

He pulls out the blanket from underneath Michael, making him flop like a fish out of water and face plants into a pillow. Splaying it out to cover him, Scottie thinks of how ridiculous it is that he's actually tucking him in. And even more than that, he's not being stopped. He smooths out the blanket and stands there for a second, feeling a little awkward but mostly worried and contended. It's an odd mix of feelings. He smiles a little but it doesn't reach his eyes this time. 

Michael puts up his arm to wave Scottie away and mumbles about how 'he's too obedient to the coach'.

"I'll go then. Rest and don't get up until at least 9 tomorrow." 

There's a low hum from Michael and he goes to turn the lights out. Before he exits, he takes a furtive glance at Michael, maybe he's wishing he could stay or Michael would ask him to, but it doesn't happen. His hand is reaching out before he can control it and stops short just before it touches Michael's cheek. He snaps it back and walks out. The door shuts loudly behind. He'll do it next time. 

**Author's Note:**

> I had a difficult time thinking of an ending and ended up writing 3 different ones. If you want to read the other two (they continue after scottie pulls the blanket) they're here https://docs.google.com/document/d/15_tXZ3qoRfQIsb_FkCml60Z9_ucmtutIOYu-9_jaCeY/edit?usp=drivesdk


End file.
